


The Same Side

by fadagaski



Series: Green Valley High [2]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Domestic, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Foster Care, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Light Angst, Prom, Young Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-05-23 17:38:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6124749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadagaski/pseuds/fadagaski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the end of Junior year, and Max and Furiosa are looking at their first summer of the rest of their lives.</p><p>Or: High School AU 2 - The Fluffinator.</p><p>
  <b>On HIATUS until September.</b>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max finds a leaflet in his locker for the carnival in town. It says "11pm" on it in black Sharpie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a while this was the coda to my high school au. Then that fic went a completely different direction. And I started to get ideas for 'after'. So here we are.

Max finds the poorly-printed paper advert for the travelling carnival stuffed inside his locker at the end of 2nd period. It has a time - 11pm? - written in Sharpie at the bottom. Folding up the leaflet, he slips it inside a pocket of his beat-up leather jacket, grabs his books for Chemistry and Spanish, and knocks the locker door shut with his elbow. 

If there’s a small smile on his face as he strolls down the hall, no one looks close enough to see it. Max just transferred, and between that and the old police jacket and the brace on his leg and his reputation as a delinquent fresh out of juvie, he has been left very much alone.

Or - almost.

*

It’s late, 11 o'clock or near as, and Max is waiting by the ferris wheel, hands deep in his pockets to ward off the bite of chilly night air. The carnival is still crowded, mostly college kids stumbling dizzily from one rickety ride to another with cups of warm apple cider in hand. The halogen lights are very bright at the corners of his eyes. Max looks up at the inky black sky, straining for a star. 

Booted footsteps thump over compacted dirt behind him. Max turns. “Hey,” he says, possibly the first word he’s said all day, easing out of him effortless as breathing - for her.

“Hey,” Furiosa replies. Her smile is a little bashful. “Sorry I’m late.”

“S'okay.” He offers her his hand, smiling just as shy when she takes it. Her fingers are always cold; he squeezes warmth into them. “Your sisters okay?”

Furiosa huffs out a breath. “Angharad was up with the baby so she caught me climbing out the window. She says I owe her.” 

“But your fosters -?”

“Don’t know.” Her voice is end-of-discussion firm. Max doesn’t mind; he’s the last person to want to dredge up interesting home dynamics, but at least his godfather doesn’t mind so much - "Just stay outta trouble, y'hear?"

For a long time they just wander between the stalls and rides, nodding their heads towards the stupid drunk college kids and their wacky antics, glimpsing bemusement in each other and laughing silent laughs. No one looks twice at either of them: she stands taller than most women, and he has a beard that puts the fratboys’ scruffs to shame.

At the cotton candy stall they stop. Furiosa buys a big one to split - they both have a rotten sweet tooth but she’s the one with an allowance from her foster family. They find a table to sit at while they pick at the cotton candy and watch all the normal people do their normal things: screaming on the rides and at their partners, ducking into dark corners to vomit or makeout. Max has never felt like part of the crowd, but at least here on the outside there’s someone beside him to share the vigil. 

A snort of amusement draws his attention back to Furiosa. “Here, you’ve got -” She gestures at his face, then leans over and pulls cotton candy fluff out of his beard. Pops it into her mouth with bright eyes. 

“That was mine,” Max growls. He takes her hand - gentle and slow, always, she doesn’t have to tell him for him to know - and draws her fingers to his mouth … and licks a wide wet path across her palm.

“Ew, Max!” she cries, but she’s smiling wider than ever, tugging ineffectually out of a grip she could break in miliseconds. Goofy and not caring, Max mouths over the sticky trace of sugar on her fingers, growing slower as her protests ease. He finishes cleaning her thumb with a wet pop. Furiosa strokes it over his bottom lip, mouth parted and cheeks flushed. Max finds himself lost in the luminous green of her eyes.

They both jolt at the shrill ringing from her jeans pocket. She pulls her hand away to dig out her phone. It buzzes angrily until she hits the red button. 

“Fosters?” Max asks. She nods, sighing. “I’ll walk you home.”

“I don’t need -”

“I know. I just - I want to.” Against all his self-preservation instincts, against a childhood lesson reinforced again and again that you don’t get close to people, you don’t let them get close to you, you keep yourself aloof and away and safe - but from the moment he moved to Green Valley, the moment Furiosa crossed his path, he’s been on a new trajectory. “Please.”

The brittle fury in her expression melts by degrees. She stands and offers her hand. 

Carnival music fades behind them as they walk down the street, side by side.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Furiosa and Max go to Junior Prom.

“Wow.”

Furiosa looks into the mirror at Val standing over her shoulder. The smile comes tremulous to her face.

“It looks okay?”

Val whistles. “You look _fierce_. Max won't know what hit him.” She grins at Furiosa.

Furiosa scans herself again from head to toe. She's let her hair grow in a little longer, a buzz of dark charcoal across her scalp. For once her face and arms aren't sporting brown-green bruises from wrestling practice. Her prosthetic gleams plastic white and smooth in the clear late afternoon light. She's wearing a sleeveless ivory blouse and a navy waistcoat, both of which arrow down her sternum more than she's strictly comfortable with. They're paired with wide navy palazzo pants and flat Oxford shoes. 

Mrs Seeds is handy with a sewing machine, that's for damn sure. 

Furiosa's stomach twists and gurgles. Her face is cold and sweaty, gone pale in the mirror. “I don't think I can do this.” She hasn't had to dress up in _years_ , not since she was a little princess in a pink room reeking of cigarettes and sex. She doesn't look like that girl any more – if anything, the clothes are on the androgynous side – but without the coverage of her hoodies and jeans, she feels bare and vulnerable.

Val rests her hands on Furiosa's shoulders and gives her a firm squeeze. “You don't have to do anything you don't want to do,” she says. Her eyes are dark and serious. “If you go, you'll be with Max and you'll have a great time. If you don't –” Here she grins again “– you'll be with Max and you'll have a great time.”

Slowly, Furiosa nods. “It's just a dance,” she says, more to herself than Val. 

Mrs Seeds knocks on the bedroom door jamb even though the door is wide open. She smiles toothily at Furiosa. “Looking good.”

“You did a great job,” Val says. “Almost wish I was enrolled.”

“No you don't,” Mrs Seeds says blandly.

“No I don't.”

Outside there's the growl of a bike engine on the winding country road; Furiosa's heart leaps into her throat and pounds there too hard for her to swallow. Val goes to the window and looks down. It's easy to hear the big pulsing engine as it swings into their driveway and sputters to a halt. 

Val spins around, black hair a waving flag, and grins at her. “Time to go!”

“I'll let him in,” Mrs Seeds says. Even indoors she wears heavy hiking boots that _thunk_ down the stairs.

Furiosa catches another glimpse of the tall pale stranger in the mirror. She takes a deep breath. “Let's do this.”

*

“Wow.”

Furiosa blushes, a deep heat across her cheeks, at the open look of surprise on Max's face as she descends the stairs. She fretted over agreeing to go with him to Junior Prom when he asked (mumbled, actually, the both of them sitting thigh to thigh in the thick bough of the tree behind the house), and then she fretted over having to wear a dress (she hates them, _hates them_ , “easy access” someone had once laughed in her face), and then she fretted over _not_ wearing a dress (because she isn't like the others and she never will be, she will never fit in, she will never be _rid_ of her past), but – 

Here she is. Here he is. And he's smiling that way he does, all in the eyes. 

Max clears his throat, ducking his head with just the hint of a blush beneath his tan. “You look, ah –” He trails off, but Furiosa feels a swell of confidence flood through her all the same. 

“You too,” she says. And he does: beneath his beat-up leather jacket he's wearing a white shirt and navy tie. His slacks are grey, and too long in the leg – she thinks they might belong to Ace – and he's wearing his trademark heavy leather boots sticking out under voluminous hems. Of course, the ride over has pressed interesting creases into his pant legs, and his hair is flat on his head after the time under a helmet – except the little tuft at the back, perked defiantly upright. 

“If you're just gonna stand and stare at each other I would've given you a potato sack to wear,” Mrs Seeds says, folding her arms. There's a wicked glint in her eye that belies the sharp words. 

Furiosa blushes again. Max clears his throat and shuffles. Then he reaches into his jacket pocket. “Got you – Ace said –” He pulls out a corsage, fake flowers gaudy in orange and pink, misshapen after their unusual journey. 

Furiosa can feel her eyebrows crawling up to her hairline.

“Oh,” Val says. “That's – nice.” 

Max stares at it as if he's never seen it before, and scratches the back of his neck. “Dunno what it's for,” he grunts. Glancing up, he freezes at whatever expression Furiosa is wearing. 

It's just a corsage, she tells herself, and makes her lungs breathe slow and deep. It's just a stupid bracelet. It's not – not a _claim_ on her, it's not like a collar and tag. 

“Very nice, Max,” Mrs Seeds says, and plucks it out of his hand. “I'll keep it in my kitchen to brighten it up.”

Mrs Seeds' kitchen is a riot of colour, from the clean tablecloth with its rose patterns and the vase of tulips in the centre, to her grandchildren's drawings of daisies and sunflowers pinned to the mint green refrigerator, to the masses of potted cacti and herbs lining shelves and worksurfaces, and the windowsills all bursting with wildflowers in the vibrant bloom of late spring. 

The tacky, lurid pink and orange flowers on the corsage will be drowned out by Mrs Seeds' kitchen. Furiosa gives her a smile that's watery at the edges. 

Max knows he's misstepped somehow but, frowning, he nods. Furiosa's chest swells. This happens so often – there is so much in the world to trip her up, and she never knows what the next hurdle will be – but he just rolls with it. Maybe that comes from the sheer ignorance caused by his upbringing, maybe not, but it makes being around him so much easier than almost anyone else. 

He looks at her, checking in, and the smile blooms on her face before she can stop it. His eyes right now – and she's seen them wild with anger and shuttered with hopeless despair – are calm and still. She could sink into them like sliding into a pond on a hot summer's day.

“Right then!” Val says, and claps her hands, making them both jump. Max makes an aborted move to run, but holds his ground. He's getting much better at that. “Rules!”

Furiosa narrows her eyes at Val. “Rules?”

“As your honorary older sister, it's my job to set rules.”

“'Older sister',” Furiosa repeats, voice flat. “You're a month older than me. _And_ I'm eighteen.”

Val waves her hand. “Rules. Max.” She points at him with one of her claw-like nails; he stands very still, watching her. “Back here by midnight. Drive safely. And no funny business.”

Max nods, slow and thoughtful. “She's driving,” he says, skipping right past the 'funny business' comment. He doesn't know what it means, he's got no cultural reference from which to infer, and it's _that_ more than anything that guarantees there won't be any 'funny business'. But Val can't know that. Furiosa hasn't told her. It's not her place to tell. 

And Max doesn't tell anyone anything. Except for her. 

“Oh.” Val turns to Furiosa. “Drive safely. And no funny business.” She waggles her eyebrows so suggestively Furiosa lets out a ridiculous snort. Yes, she's annoyed that Val is even talking about this, but this – this is what older sisters do. This is what normal teenagers do. On Prom night. To which she is going. 

Max holds out a hand, doesn't say anything, just waits for her decision. 

She steels herself with a deep breath, puts her hand in his, grabs her leather jacket and leads him out the door.

*

_Wow_ , Furiosa thinks.

She swings the bike into the student parking lot, mounts the curb right by the exit and kills the engine. In the dusky blue twilight, the sun already abed, Windy High glows golden and bright, a thousand fairy lights lining doors and windows and roof. Silhouettes of students mill about the front lawn, and – without the growl of the engine – throbbing music can be heard through the walls. 

Max swings off the bike behind her; her belly feels bare without the warm pressure of his arms. She rocks the bike onto its stand, then dismounts. The everpresent wind feels delicious against the hot skin of her face when she removes her helmet. Without it pressing on her ears, the music is louder, some recent pop thing she doesn't know, and the other students are laughing and talking. 

They store their helmets in the saddlebags. Furiosa takes off her leather jacket and tucks it in there too. After a second chewing his lip, so does Max. He looks almost naked with it, just the thin cotton of his shirt between his skin and the rest of the world. Furiosa catches herself staring at the flex of his biceps over up-rolled shirt sleeves, and tears her eyes away. She shivers, though it isn't cold. 

“Hm. Tickets.” Max digs them out of his pocket and passes one to Furiosa. It has a picture of a glittering fairy on it against a background of dark trees. In loopy letters it reads 'Enchanted Forest'.

“Thanks. I'll pay you back.”

“Okay.”

Furiosa shakes her head and smiles. On TV, men argue against a woman paying her share, insisting that he do it as a 'gentleman', or else make a big deal out of letting _her_ pay. Val always jeers these moments, sometimes so passionately she throws popcorn, cushions and – once – her phone at the TV. But Max? Max has no idea that's what he's 'supposed' to do. It doesn't even cross his mind. 

The music pounds louder as the doors swing open, and another gaggle of students vanish inside. It seems like such a long way to walk from the bike to the cafeteria.

Max's hand brushes hers, just gently, a grounding touch. Furiosa breathes a shuddering sigh. She slips her fingers between his and together they walk up the stairs – lined with rivers of fairy lights – past the students sat on the grass and through the double doors.

*

“Wow, don't you turn out nice?” 

The voice sets Furiosa's teeth on edge. She turns and yes, there is Lindy, her hand trailing possessively up and down Max's arm. “Oo, and so strong. Have you been working out?” She squeezes his bicep like she's testing a piece of meat. Furiosa can feel her lip curling.

Max, for his part, has frozen at the touch, his hand gone hard and sweaty in Furiosa's grip. His shoulders are tense, and it's so _easy_ to see without his leather jacket like armour. But Lindy isn't looking, of course. 

A month at this new school, and Lindy has never once actually looked at Max as a whole person. She sees a rebel's jacket and a rebel's bike and a rebel's scruffy beard and that's all. 

With a firm tug, Furiosa pulls Max away and steps between him and Lindy, and glares down – and down – at the other girl. Lindy tosses her hair over her shoulder, beautiful deep emerald dress shimmering like the sea under a million stars. She looks like a movie star. “So possessive, caveman,” she sneers. 

And the thing is, after hours and hours on the house roof looking for answers in the sky above, Furiosa has realised she's _not_. If Max told her tomorrow that he wanted to leave, go off into the world and be with someone else (even Lindy), it – it would break her heart. No doubt about it. But Furiosa doesn't own him, and he doesn't own her, and that's why they work. By accident they fell onto the same path through life, and she'll walk by his side for as long as it feels right. 

But Lindy's the kind of person to want ownership, to want to brand someone as hers, and she can't take 'no' for an answer regardless of how often Max has shied away.

Other girls are clever with their words, but Furiosa usually finds that silence is just as effective. Saying nothing, she stares down – and down – at Lindy until the small girl flicks her hair again with an irritated huff.

“Call me when you want actual female company,” she says around the block of Furiosa's body to Max, then swirls away like the tide going out.

Behind Furiosa, Max lets out a punch of air. He squeezes her hand in thanks. Turning, Furiosa gives him an exasperated look. “You need to tell her with words,” she says. 

“Hm,” he grunts, nodding. 

With a roll of her eyes, Furiosa tugs him towards the buffet at the back of the cafeteria. In the dim, crowded room, with its flashing lights and gyrating bodies and the distorted wail of the speakers, food is about the only thing Furiosa can say she might enjoy. 

Plates heaving with sandwiches and corn chips, they sit side by side on chairs tucked right back against the wall, under a dozen painted fairies flitting through the winding branches of towering trees. Furiosa eats with single-minded intensity – she was too nervous to keep down much at lunch – and soon the too-familiar gnawing ache in her belly fades. Max, beside her, chows his food as he always does: hunched over his haul, eyes scanning the room in continuous sweeps.

When their bellies are full – seriously, Furiosa can rest her hand on the bulge of her stomach, and Max's shirt is a little tighter than it was before – they watch the dancers bumping and grinding into each other. This is a sultry number from the band, and it's all so overtly sexual it makes the skin of Furiosa's neck crawl. The room is too hot and crowded, and she's starting to feel sick. 

Max taps her thigh and nods at the open fire exit. She nods, and they go.

Relief floods her the second she's outside. The wind blows fresh and clear over her tingling skin, lifting the scent of cut grass and the lake just down the hill from the football field. Rolling her shoulders, Furiosa lets the tension slip off her back. She takes Max's warm, dry hand in hers and leads him along the side of the school, just out of immediate view of the rectangle flare of light emitted by the fire exit. Here the ground is firm, untroubled by careless feet, and Furiosa sits with a sigh. In the distance the lake glints indigo beneath a sky speckled with early stars, and though the music is still playing – something jaunty and quick, with a pulsing bass – she feels peaceful. 

Max sits next to her, back against the rough brick wall, her hand folded in his. They watch the night close in, students stumbling in loud bursts out of the school, racing down the grassy slope to the football field where, by the sounds of it, a second party is well underway. 

Sighing, Furiosa lets her head slip sideways, coming to rest on Max's shoulder – smaller, without the jacket. She's not with the other teens, she's not _part_ of them, but here she is, eighteen years old, at Junior Prom with an actual date. 

It's been an extraordinary year in what, she's been told, is already an extraordinary life.

*

“Ow.”

She wakes with a grunt and a flinch, shooting pains lancing across her neck, on one side where the tendons have stretched overlong, and the other where they've been compressed. Wincing, Furiosa straightens her spine, easing her head side to side to loosen the muscles of her neck. 

She doesn't remember falling asleep, but there's a little damp patch on Max's shoulder as evidence enough. There was a time, not even a few months ago, where the idea of falling asleep outside would have been laughable, the idea of falling asleep with a _man_ unthinkable. But, she supposes, this isn't any man; this is Max, who has seen her at her lowest – helped put her there, in some respects, but helped put her back together again too. 

He offers her a small smile, squeezing her hand still resting on his thigh. His eyes are soft as velvet on her. The moon has finally risen, curled like a comma in the sky, its light catching flecks of silver in his hair. 

He jerks his head back in a silent question. Furiosa bites her lip. They could drive home in the early night, headlight cutting through the cloaking dark. And Max would drop her off and then go, back to Ace's house forty minutes away, and that would be it until Monday at school. 

She doesn't want that to be it until Monday. 

“Haven't danced yet,” she murmurs, though her stomach tangles at the thought of going back inside, where the music is too loud and there are people everywhere. Max stares for a long moment, long enough she begins to blush, and then he stands. His hand lowers towards her, slow and easy – always wary, because he _knows_ her. When she follows it up, fingers to wrist to elbow to shoulder to face, the sky flares like a cape behind him. 

She takes his hand. His eyes smile at her.

Inside, the lead singer mumbles something indistinct into the microphone before the band strikes up a slow, easy song. Max and Furiosa stand awkwardly still as the music swells, fingers twisted together. Then, with a soft sigh, Furiosa takes a step into Max's personal space. His eyes flitter up, nervy as a horse, but he stands his ground, lets her wrap her arms loosely around his shoulders. He rests his hands feather-light on the small of her back. She rides the shiver up her spine, staring fixedly at his face, grounding herself in _Max's_ blue-green eyes and _Max's_ golden brown beard and _Max's_ full, soft lips. They're used to each other getting close in a fight but this is new, strange, intimate territory. 

They start to move. It's not really dancing, and it's definitely not in time with the music, but the susseration of their shoes over the grass is close enough. Gradually, the tension eases out of Furiosa's muscles, and she can feel Max loosening too. They rock more easily with the song, hands a little firmer, hips swaying to the lazy beat. Closing her eyes, Furiosa presses her forehead to Max's, rests there as her body moves, dragging step left, dragging step right, Max's hands large and warm on her waist. His breath flutters hot and moist over her exposed collarbones, skin tingling in its absence as he inhales. Somewhere close by, students shout and laugh, drunk on the joy of youth, but in this bubble there's just the two of them. 

The music ends, after she doesn't know how long; for once she's lost track of time, and that feels okay. Furiosa blinks open her eyes and lifts her head from Max. He stares up at her, looking just as dazed as she is. Without the music they come to a standstill, but neither moves. Max bites his lip. Furiosa can't help the way her eyes track down to the movement. When she glances back up, Max is staring at her mouth. Her breath catches in her throat.

As if drawn by magnetic forces, Furiosa leans forward, eyes fixed on his lips. She can feel the flush radiating from his cheeks, mirrored in the burn across her face. But she makes herself stop, makes herself meet his eyes. “Can I?” she whispers, trembling air over his chin. 

Max nods. And then he tilts his head just a little, and presses his mouth to hers. 

Hundreds of kisses Furiosa has had, dainty ones from her sisters and devouring ones from men four times her age, but there's never been anything quite like this: just the warm pressure of Max's soft lips against hers, the fluff of air out of his nose dancing across her skin, his hands light and careful on her waist. She's been so worried about this moment, in the short time they've been together, worried about panic attacks and flashbacks and him hurting her, her hurting him, but –

She sighs, mouth opening against his, and flicks her tongue over the seal of his lips.

Max spasms and pulls back, breath coming sudden and huge and _loud_. His eyes are wide open, watchful but not quite panicked. Furiosa unwraps her arms from his shoulders to give him space to move, if he wants. 

He doesn't move. 

With a gentle smile, she takes one of his hands off her waist and holds it fragile as a trembling bird in her own. “Take me home?”

*

_Oh_. In no time, it seems, they pull into her driveway, the long twisting country roads left behind them. Her Junior Prom, Furiosa thinks with resigned disappointment, is over.

Max pulls the key out of the ignition and waits for Furiosa to dismount before he rocks the bike onto its stand. She's grateful for the warmth of her jacket; summer it may be, but this is the Pacific North West, and they didn't call it the Windy Valley for nothing. 

She locks her helmet away in the saddlebag. Max leaves his on the seat, since he will need it soon. When he looks at her, his eyes are still sort of shocky, and his lips are shiny as if he's been licking at them repeatedly. 

“Hey,” Furiosa says, and offers him her hand. After a moment he takes it. She leads him to the front porch, wooden steps creaking underfoot. All the lights are off inside, but she doesn't doubt both Val and Mrs Seeds are still awake waiting for her. Where before she might have resented it, felt _burdened_ by expectation, now the thought fills her with warmth.

One of Mrs Seeds' few extravagances is a swinging porch bench made of sturdy wood and sturdier chains and covered in weatherproof cushioning. Her first week there, after all the horrible mistakes she made in Green Valley, Max in juvie and Furiosa alone and depressed and so damn _sorry_ for everything, she and Val sat out on the porch every night and just talked. Sometimes Furiosa let silence do the talking for her, but it got easier. Val made it easier. 

Max sits down next to her, still clasping her hand in his, and the seat wobbles until they settle their feet on the floor to steady it. Swaying the bench is a little like their dancing, just a subtle movement to tilt the world this way and that. Furiosa closes her eyes and breathes in the night air, listens to the hoot of an owl and – thousands of feet above – the hum of a jumbo jet flying to adventures unknown. Beside her, she knows without looking that Max is scanning the darkness for movement, keen ears twitching at every noise. She sighs, and rubs her thumb in circles over the thin skin on the back of his hand. 

“Hm. Furiosa.” 

She opens her eyes, lifts her head from the back of the bench. Max has twisted to face her, one knee up on the seat, his _back_ to the darkness. Furiosa sits up, wobbling the bench with the metallic grind of chain links. 

Max raises a hand, slow and careful and so very warm, to her cheek. He leans forward – the bench shifts, Furiosa steadies it with her legs – and his face is in shadow but she can just see the soft gleam of his eyes. Her heart is suddenly pounding in her chest, nerves fired with electricity, stomach writhing in giddy circles. They should talk about this, that's what normal people do, but then she and Max are not normal people. 

He presses their lips together, tilting their heads so noses don't bump. The thrill of it skates down Furiosa's spine. After a few seconds, he opens his mouth and flicks his tongue against the seam of her lips.

Exactly as she did to him only half an hour ago.

On a sigh, she parts her lips, tongue fluttering out to touch his. He grunts in surprise, low in his throat, but he doesn't pull away. Furiosa leans closer, leaning her prosthetic arm against his thigh and tilting her head more, mouth opening wider. She knows this, almost muscle memory, and the horror of it bubbles at the back of her mind, but then Max licks curiously at her bottom lip and the electric thrill ignites a fire in her belly. When she sucks on his, with just a hint of teeth, he groans, a thunderous rumble in his chest, hand scooping back to cradle her skull and pull her close. This is knowledge she's been cursed with, but for the first time she realises she can use it for her own purposes, to make him gasp and moan with pleasure because _she wants to_. 

Releasing her grip on his hand, she scratches her fingers over his beard and through his hair, turning his head so that she can sweep his mouth with her tongue, a sinuous press and glide that drags a moan from her own throat. His hand spasms on her thigh, sliding up over her hip to her waist and pulling her just a little closer to him. She switches the angle of her head, lips moving faster now, the spark and burn of his stubble against her face turning her skin raw. Her breath comes quick and unsteady, little gasps where she can grab them as she nibbles at his lips and across his jaw and down his neck, biting and sucking a bruise into his stubble while she listens to his hisses and grunts as he comes slowly apart. 

It's when she's making moves to swing her leg over his lap that Furiosa comes abruptly back to herself. She pulls away with a ragged gasp, sitting on her backside with enough force to judder the bench. Max's hands are hot, dry and firm on her shoulders, fingers kneading the muscle there. She realises her flesh hand is gripping a palmful of his hair to twist his head aside, and she lets go in a hurry. They're outside in the wide open country, but there doesn't seem to be enough air, the both of them breathing loud and heavy. Her lips burn, spit-slick drying in the night wind. 

Max releases her arms and clears his throat, head ducking for a moment of privacy. Belatedly, Furiosa realises her prosthetic arm is still pressed against his thigh. She leans back, retracting it, and lets out a shuddery breath. Her muscles feel like they might vibrate off her bones. 

“That –” Max starts, then stops. He lets out a long breath through his nose.

She should feel – tainted. Dirty. Guilty, for tainting Max. He'd been innocent, and then she had given him this knowledge, knowledge that had marred her mind and her body both for years and years. Experience tells her these activities lead to locked bedroom doors, to sweat and pain and revulsion, to nightmares and too little sleep and long hours spent in the shower scrubbing her skin raw. 

But that's not how she feels. Somehow, between the sting of her chapped lips and the electric tingle of her nerves and the flame burning hot and low in her belly, she is not tainted. She feels clean, pure, like the earth after a thunderstorm has swept away the haze of a limp humid day. 

Somehow, kissing Max has made kissing _hers_ , something _she_ can enjoy, revel in, _share_. She's hungry for it, all of a sudden. She wants more of that sensation sparking like lightning under her skin, wants more of his clean taste and the plush give of his lips and the safety of his callused hands holding her together.

And she knows, when he glances sidelong at her with residual heat in his eyes, that he feels it too.

“You could come tomorrow,” she says, with a one-shouldered shrug. She scrapes a fingernail into the wood grain until his hand closes over hers.

“Okay,” he says. And then he leans in again to kiss her one last time.

*

“Wow,” says Val, one dark eyebrow ticked up over blue amused eyes, when Furiosa stands in the open entrance and listens as the rumble of a bike engine fades into black. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max and Furiosa complete their homework, make dinner and watch TV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Tyellas, who prompted: "I wouldn't mind a happy!highschoolAU ficlet of Max/Furiosa discovering a book or a show or a YouTube series together."
> 
> Um. I mean. I _tried_ to make it happy. Everything about these two is so messed up, but I did _try_. ::shifty::

The words on the page blur into a kaleidoscope of grey. Grunting, Max rubs his eyes with thumb and forefinger, then squints again at the book. It doesn't improve. 

Max glances sideways at Furiosa, sat adjacent at Ace's pokey kitchen table in Ace's pokey kitchen, ancient fridge humming behind them and the bare light overhead buzzing in that way that promises a blown fuse soon. They've been at this for hours, rereading stuff they've learnt in school. Ace called it 'revising'. Said it was important. Max doesn't know why, but Furiosa is doing it, brow furrowed and lip bitten as she writes notes in her blocky handwriting. If she's doing it, Max knows it's worth doing, and so he's persisted through the headache he always gets when he's reading, through the frustration caused by sheer confusion because, whether it's Algebra or Shakespeare or US History, he doesn't _understand_. 

But it's worth it to be next to Furiosa. The yellow light makes her skin glow, bringing out gold flecks in her eyes. He likes watching her hand with its long fingers and short neat nails as she flicks a page, likes the sound it makes when she writes and the side of her palm brushes across the paper. When she leans in close to read small print captions under monochrome pictures, he gets a clear wave of her smell, nothing so pungent and fruity as the girls' perfumes at school, but engine oil and laundry detergent and dark earth from Mrs Seeds' garden. 

Sometimes – like now – she scrunches her nose at a thing she's read and it compresses Max's chest so tight he forgets to breathe. 

Furiosa flicks her eyes up and catches him watching. Max coughs and ducks his head, stares blindly at the book under his nose. Hours they've been at this and he can't, in that instant, recall anything that he's supposed to have 'revised'. He risks another snatched look; there's a smile tucked into the dimples of her cheeks.

After a few agonising seconds of his heart pounding wildly against his sternum, Furiosa sighs and closes her book with a resolute thump. Max copies her, relief streaming into his veins as the tension headache retreats. He flexes his neck – _crack pop_ – while Furiosa clicks the lid back onto her pen and rolls her shoulders. She casts him an amused look, crinkled at the corners of her eyes, that has heat rising up his neck. 

Furiosa's stomach rumbles and then she's wearing a matching flush. 

They make dinner together standing side by side at Ace's pokey kitchen's pokey worktop. Furiosa slices lettuce and cucumber and tomatoes while Max picks at the chicken carcass from yesterday's roast. They don't talk, and it's as easy as breathing; their fingers brush when he passes her the colander to rinse the vegetables and it sends a little firework sparkling up his arm.

“TV?” Furiosa asks, plate in hand with a mound of salad and chicken drizzled in honey mustard sauce. Max shrugs and nods, and follows her through to Ace's pokey lounge, leaving twin stacks of miserable textbooks behind. Truth be told, he wouldn't care if she suggested they eat in the bathroom or on the roof; he just likes being with her.

Furiosa catches the switch with her prosthetic on her way in, bathing the room in a suffuse light. There's more furniture in Ace's lounge than there's strictly room for, and all of it's mismatched. The flatscreen TV perches a little lopsided on a scratched pine sidetable. In two cubby holes underneath are the cable box and the DVD player, neither of which Max knows how to use. Less than a foot from the TV is a coffee table in much darker wood, semi-circular mug rings staining its surface like a dozen moons. The two-seat sofa, an ancient thing with springs that creak and blue covers gone grey with age, pens the long edge of the coffee table. Perpendicular is Ace's bottle-green recliner with no space to recline. Finally, two feet from the back of the sofa rest a wobbly rolling office chair facing a plastic desk, upon which is another screen – a bulky square 'monitor', Ace had said. The beige tower on the floor next to the desk looks like the computers Max has seen at the two police stations he's visited, rather than the laptops the teachers use at school. Ace said Max could use it whenever he wanted. He thinks one day he'd like to try; maybe Furiosa can help him. She helps him with so much already.

Max has never lived in such comfort. It wakes him up, sometimes, when the night is at its blackest, and he has to scout the house with itchy palms testing walls and furniture and doors to be sure, to be absolutely _sure_ that it's real and he's not huddled delirious in a desert cave with a fly-struck corpse only a hewn wall away. 

Socked feet scuffing over the thin navy carpet, Furiosa scoots sideways between the coffee table and the sofa to the far end, where she sits with one leg tucked under her and plate balanced carefully on the sofa arm. Max places his on the table before passing her a fork. He perches on the edge of the seat, inhaling the smell of food deeply. Salad and chicken, both fresh and cold from the refrigerator, is probably Max's favourite meal. Riding his bike back from Windy High through Green Valley to Ace's house, Max has seen the crowds of teenagers stuffed inside McDonald's and Burger King and Wendy's and KFC. Ace even brought him back a burger once, and it had smelled pretty good, but the flavours were powerful and conflicting, the meat oily and the bread slightly sour; an hour later he'd been sick in the toilet, and that was the last time he had tried fast food. Why bother, anyway, when there are fresh things to eat? 

Max tucks in with relish, and doesn't look up until he has wiped the last of the mayo with a particularly crunchy crouton and popped it into his mouth.

Even mayonnaise tastes different out of the fridge instead of from those little blue packets his pa used to bring back by the box after his supply trips.

Furiosa has turned the TV on while he was elsewise occupied. The only time it's ever really used is when she comes over; Ace isn't one for television, and Max has never used one before. He's come to associate it with her, with evenings after school or at the weekend, curled next to each other with thighs pressed firm and warm together, colours flashing in her green eyes. 

It is totally true that Max watches Furiosa more than he watches the TV.

Today, glancing quickly at her half-finished salad and then at her face, the show she has picked seems more of a distraction to her than usual.

“What's this?” Max asks, shuffling backwards more securely on the sofa, wincing at the stab of an errant spring. The padding is all but gone from the cushions both behind and beneath him. There's no response from Furiosa. Frowning, Max squints at the TV. It's something old – he's learned that new shows fit the full width of the screen, but old shows are more square – and it appears to be set in a school. As if they don't spend enough time there; people actually want to watch shows about it too?

Yes, judging by Furiosa's avid stare. He can see her pulse beating too fast in her neck. 

“Hey,” Max says, and brushes his hand over the skin between her prosthetic and her nicotine patch. It takes a few seconds for Furiosa to drag her eyes away, look quickly at Max, and then swivel straight back to the screen. 

“It's a show,” she says. 

Max lifts his eyebrows. “Yes.” He waits, watching the colours dance over her face.

Slowly, his silent attention draws her back. She huffs when she looks across at him, but whatever spell had captured her is broken. She spears a hunk of chicken with plate-wobbling force and bites it in half.

On screen, a bell rings and students converge in front of the camera. The girls seem to have a lot of boisterous curly hair. 

“It's called 'Saved by the Bell',” Furiosa says, subdued. She takes a shuddery breath in. “I used to watch this with – with my mom.” Now Max looks at her, TV forgotten. Furiosa never talks about her mother, she never talks about the past, except on those rare and fragile occasions when memories seem to swell under her skin til it splits and she bleeds truth out of poisoned arteries. “We'd sit on the double bed in whatever dump we were staying in and watch this. She always said –” Her voice tremors “– she said high school were the best years of her life.” Choked laughter knots her throat, and Max aches deep in his gut, a peculiar agony like being hooked on a fishing line tied to the tears brimming unshed in her eyes. The cushions rustle with the shudder of her shoulders.

“Hey. Hey,” he says, scooting closer. He rests his hand carefully on her shoulder. Sometimes she flinches, arms swinging wild and fierce and furious. 

Not tonight, though. 

Tall as Furiosa is, when she tilts sideways her head fits between Max's collarbone and chin like it was made to be there. He slides his arm the rest of the way around and she turns fully into him, face pressed hot and hard against his pectorals. Her flesh hand grips hold of his shirt over his heart and twists the material tight. 

She's not crying. Furiosa doesn't cry. Tears might shine in her eyes, throat constricting around a knot of misery lodged there, but Max has never seen her cry, though she's been given plenty of cause. All the same, he rubs his hand up and down the muscular length of her back in firm strokes and waits for her to put herself together in her own time. This is what she does. She is the bravest person he knows.

“Off,” she mutters into his sternum. “Turn it off.” 

Max reaches for the remote on the sofa arm next to her plate, just about snags it, and studies it above Furiosa's ducked head. There are so many buttons and colours and symbols and he doesn't know what any of them mean.

Furiosa's hand tightens in his shirt.

Scowling, Max points the remote at the TV and mashes the buttons with his thumb.

He feels stupidly proud when the channel changes. 

On screen, a car swerves down a wide road between slow-moving traffic under a blazing blue sky that reminds him with a dull pang of the desert. Police chase after the car, sirens wailing. 

Furiosa's shoulders unclench. Max, dropping the remote in his lap, glances down at the curve of her dark eyelashes resting on her cheek. 

Suddenly the speakers blare with a godawful song. Max looks up just in time to see the first car flying through the air, and he realises it's the _horn_ on the car that's making the noise. 

“Huh,” he says. The more of television he watches, the less he understands it.

Furiosa lifts her head, a snort of amusement warm across the base of his throat. Max swallows.

“'Dukes of Hazard',” Furiosa says, sitting up, scuffing the heel of her hand across her bloodshot eyes. Max catches her hand on the way down and folds it gently between both of his own. She offers him a twitch of a smile. “Full of car chases.”

A woman walks in front of the camera in a pair of denim shorts that are smaller than Max's boxers.

“And women,” Furiosa adds. She's watching the TV with a thin 'v' between her eyebrows.

“I like the cars,” Max says. Furiosa nods thoughtfully, then casts him a sly look from the corner of her eye. 

“Hang on then.” As if he would do anything else with her. She plucks the remote off his leg where he let it rest and presses a series of buttons – Max has given up trying to follow the sequences – and then the speakers roar. Max whips his head round to see: floodlights, an arena, trucks shining like beetle carapaces over _enormous_ wheels. 

One launches off a ramp and goes careening through the air, to the wild cheer of the crowd.

Eyebrows lifting, Max glances sidelong at Furiosa. She smiles at him and places the remote on the coffee table. Then she tucks herself back into his side, warm and firm against his skin, her hard skull digging into his shoulder in just the right way to reassure him that this is real.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Furiosa's first massage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [incredisturbeepy](http://incredisturbeepy.tumblr.com) requested: Highschool AU Furiosa/Max aaaaand 4. :D ["Do you ... well ... I mean ... I could give you a massage?"]
> 
> [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tubmrl.com) said: Ask/drabble prompt. Max and Furiosa, 4.

Living with Mrs Seeds is nothing like Furiosa could have imagined. It's _easier_ than she could have imagined, after years in motels with her mom; and then the princess rooms; and then the attic; those few weeks between hospitals and shelters; and finally the turbulent months at Mel and Madi's house in Green Valley. She didn't try to get comfortable at first - eighteen years old with a history, why the hell would anyone want to keep _her_ close? - but the days turned to weeks turned to months, and Mrs Seeds didn't kick her out.

Sometimes the gratitude swells up so thick and wet she can barely breathe through it.

So Furiosa helps out where she can. She fetches groceries from the store, and makes dinner three times a week (she is awful; usually Max comes over to cook instead), and cleans out the basement, and entertains the grandchildren on their monthly visit. It's the least she can do, and though sometimes the chores tax her mental strength, she's just so happy to be able to pay back in whatever small way she can.

Today she has paid back in the garden. And by _god_ has she paid.

Mrs Seeds' garden is a thing of beauty, but not because it is filled with flowers. "I can't abide all that useless trash. I'm not the King of France. Land should be natural or it should be useful. None of this artificial crap." Always blunt and opinionated, Mrs Seeds was. Which means that her garden is mostly a vegetable patch, and with summer on their doorstep, she needed all hands on deck to get the late vegetables planted.

This involved a lot of Mrs Seeds sitting on the back porch under a wide-brimmed hat, sipping a glass of homemade peach iced tea.

As far as Furiosa was concerned, it involved lifting, carrying, pouring, digging, shovelling, forking and planting.

"I think that'll do for today," Mrs Seeds declares, creaking to her feet as the sun burnishes the horizon a blazing gold. She vanishes into the house.

After stuffing the gardening tools in the shed, Furiosa wobbles to the porch steps and plops down.

 _Everything_ hurts.

The back door swings open (silent after Furiosa oiled the hinges). "Aww, did I miss it?" Val asks in an innocent tone. "I'm so gutted I had to work."

Furiosa would turn to glare at her, but her neck hurts too much. "Fuck you," she says mildly.

"Don't be like that, Fury. Look! I brought you a present!"

She almost flinches at the heavy body that lowers onto the second step up behind her, but she recognised those footsteps and she knows those boots sticking out either side of her hips.

"Max," she says, and smiles.

"There now. I knew you'd forgive me!" The back door slaps behind Val's retreat.

Furiosa huffs a breath. Since moving here, Val has taken it upon herself to be the most aggravating sister Furiosa could ever hope to have. It's - strangely nice. But Furiosa has always known she's a bit warped like that.

"Been busy," Max murmurs. His voice sends shivers down her spine.

"I think I'm broken. Everything hurts."

He laughs, soundless, just warm air over her skin. Furiosa shudders.

"Do you ... Well ... I mean ... I could give you a massage?" Very, very tentatively, his hands rest on her shoulders, riding out her initial spasm of fear.

Biting her lip, Furiosa taps her boot heels against the wood. "Never - never had one before." His thumbs smooth up either side of her spine in the lightest stroke. It sends bright zapping tingles across her skin.

"Tell me. If."

Furiosa twitches a nod, _yes_.

On the second stroke, his thumbs are much firmer, digging into the muscle and pushing upwards. The breath startles out of Furiosa, and she has trouble drawing it back in when he does it again. He works his way across her shoulders, using his thumbs and the heels of his palms, pressing hard enough to bring tears stinging to Furiosa's eyes it feels so _good_. Her stomach's in knots - it always is when someone's behind her, when someone's touching her - but it's more than that, some kind of hot shivering thing low in her belly.

Max's hands work lower, moving down either side of her spine, forcing the tight muscles to unclench. When he presses his knuckles into the small of her back, Furiosa surprises herself with the guttural groan that chokes out of her. Max freezes. Immediately her face burns red hot.

He clears his throat. "Alright?" he croaks.

Furiosa doesn't trust herself to respond beyond a shaky nod. She can't tell for sure if she wants him to stop or not, but then his knuckles dig in and she has to bite back a bleating whimper.

He massages down to the bottom of her shirt, and then works back up again, his movements softer, using the warm span of his palms instead of force to ease out the last knots. Finally, his hands return to their starting place cupping her shoulders, thumbs stroking lightly at her skin above her tee's neckline.

Furiosa feels dizzy.

The back door opens. She can't bring herself to look round, or even really to care that her head is hanging low and her thighs are quivering. "Max? Are you staying for dinner?" asks Mrs Seeds.

Max shifts behind her, leaning back so that cool air filters into the space where before there had just been them. "Please."

"Of course. Come on in. You can set the table." The door slaps shut again.

Carefully, Max's arms wrap around Furiosa, crossing over and pulling her close. For once, the flinch doesn't come. She just eases back, and there's his solid torso and his leather jacket and the steady drum of his heart. "Hey," he says, rumbling from his chest to hers.

Furiosa tips her head back; it fits exactly into the crook between his neck and shoulder. "Hey."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max spends a day at the lake with Furiosa, Val and Val's girlfriend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For battle_cat, who prompted: "For the drabble meme: 24. Max/Furiosa, in canon universe or in your high school AU, whichever you prefer."
> 
> Drabble. Right.

Someone knocks at the door when Max has just dunked his greasy breakfast plate into the sink of hot soapy water. Ace, stuffing the last bite of yolk-soaked bread into his mouth with his index finger, glances at Max's startled face and waves his hand. 

“Grngh,” he says, rising to his feet. He shuffles out of the dim pokey kitchen to the front door. 

Max dries his hands on a dish towel and forces his breath to remain slow and even. His heart thuds overloud in his chest. There is a carving knife in the drawer to his left. He does not reach for it. 

Ace reappears, a curl of a smile lurking in the corners of his mouth that relaxes Max immediately; Ace only smiles for one person. 

And there she is.

A sensation like warm liquid gold floods through Max from his belly to his toes and the tips of his fingers.

“Max,” Furiosa says. 

He can feel his eyes creasing at the corners. Max doesn't know much about anything, but he does know that seeing Furiosa for the first time on any given day of the week makes his heart skip a beat. She's in loose cargo pants and a baggy shirt today; her hair is especially short, probably shaved last night. His palms itch with the desire to rub over the soft fuzz.

Ace clears his throat and gives him a _look_ over the rim of his steaming mug.

Thinking through 'normal' interactions is still a skill Max has yet to master. “Furiosa. Coffee?”

She smiles at him – 'dimples' is a word he's had to learn – and shakes her head. “There's some in the car. We're going to the lake today. You're more than welcome to come with us.”

“Good plan,” Ace says. “Go before summer vacation starts. Which lake?”

Furiosa shrugs one shoulder; the other has a bag strap pressing it down. “Val's girlfriend lives on a farm. She says they have one.”

“It'll be more of a puddle, then,” Ace says, snorting a laugh.

Max picks up Ace's empty plate and splashes it into the sink, tries to remember pictures he's seen in books. With his back turned he becomes hyper aware of Furiosa's sounds: the squeak of her boot on the lino floor, the _tap-tap-tap_ of her prosthetic hand against her thigh. “What do you do?” he asks the suds. “At a lake?”

Furiosa takes a stuttering breath. “I – don't know. Swim, I guess.” 

At school the teachers get frustrated with the gaps in his head. The other students move too quick, flitting over topics and technology Max can't understand. It ties a hard knot into his throat every time that he has to swallow down and down. But Furiosa gets it: she has gaps too. He speaks easier around her.

Ace puts his mug to one side and claps his hands. “You'll need some shorts. Can't go swimming in jeans.” 

“I don't have –”

“I do. Wait.” Ace ducks out of the kitchen in the direction of his bedroom. Max busies his hands drying the last plate. After a short pause, Furiosa appears at his side, pulling the cupboard door for him to stack the plates away. She opens the cutlery drawer before he's even gathered the knives and forks in his hands, and almost traps his fingers snapping it shut again. Max growls at her. Furiosa laughs.

“Here.” Max turns in time to catch the ratty pair of tan shorts Ace tosses at him. “You got towels?” he asks Furiosa.

She nods, and turns to Max, eyes shining and dimples bracketing her lips. “Let's go.”

*

Early June, yellow sunlight and a clear blue sky over miles and miles of patchwork fields and deep green forests. Once they're out of Green Valley, they wind the windows down and Val cranks up the volume, something with wailing electric guitars and a guy singing shrilly about a highway to hell. Max rests his arm on the outside of the door and taps his hand against the hot metal. Watching the scenery blur past, he enjoys the contrast of the cold wind skating between his fingers. He doesn't think he's ever travelled so fast in his life; the hum of the tires thrums up through his breastbone. 

Riding shotgun in front of him, Val's girlfriend Freya sings along, banging her head to the beat. Val joins her, the both of them bouncing in their seats and grinning as the car wobbles on the road. Their hair whips black and blonde, wild and free. At the end of the song they clasp hands over the central console. Max catches Furiosa's eye and they share a smile.

When he looks back out the open window, squinting into the wind, Furiosa's fingers brush against the back of his left hand resting on the seat between them. Goosebumps tingle up the length of his arm. The state of Washington is out there in its summer glory, yet Max's whole existence has suddenly narrowed to the scant inch of skin connected to Furiosa. 

All those years in the desert, he never knew just how precious the simple act of touching someone else could be, or how starved he was for it.

“Oh! Oh! Here!” Freya flaps her hand at Val. “Turn right!”

Val stomps on the brakes and yanks the wheel, tyres screaming. Adrenaline spikes through Max. Freya whoops in delight as they skid sideways off the road, bouncing onto a dirt track running parallel to a frothy stream. The car jolts and shudders over great divots in the path. 

“Everyone okay back there?” Val calls over the blare of the radio. 

Max only realises he is gripping Furiosa's hand bloodless when she squeezes back. His heart is thundering in his chest. He sucks in a ragged breath and tries to make the tension blow out of him on the exhale. 

“We're fine,” Furiosa says, and squeezes his hand again. Max eases his hold, but he doesn't let go. Her hand is firm in his, skin soft on the back but rougher at her fingertips. Still not as callused as his, even now, coming up to six months out of the desert.

They rattle along the track for a couple of miles, by his estimate. It's so alien to be surrounded on all sides by trees. He can't see more than twenty feet in any direction. The thick green smell of leaves and earth blows into the car; beside him, he hears Furiosa take a deep breath of it, and turns to see her smiling with closed eyes, dappled light fluttering over her pale face. There was beauty in the desert, when he thought to see it: the pale light of a winter sunrise, or the night sky gleaming with a million stars. But nothing ever made his heart bruise against his ribcage like it is right now looking at her.

They round a bend in the bone-rattling track and the trees vanish. When the car angles down, a lake of sapphire blue rolls out in front of them. 

“Ta-da!” crows Freya, drawing Max's attention away from the woman whose hand he is still holding. “Finch Lake.”

It's bigger than a mud puddle. 

The beach – soft yellow sand – slides into and under the gentle lapping water, which spreads out a deep blue from here to the distant shore: maybe a quarter mile or more. Long grasses, of a kind he's not surprised he doesn't know, crowd up the sides of the beach and block the view of the width of the lake; judging by the border of trees he can see, it's easily another half mile across.

Max has lived in Washington now for three months, seen the last dregs of a white winter wash away in spring rain, and yet he's never seen so much water in his entire life. He feels thirsty just looking at it, and licks his lips. 

“This looks great,” Furiosa says. She squeezes Max's hand once before letting go to open the car door. 

The girls cluster at the back of the car. Warm air ruffles his hair when they open the trunk and start pulling out bags. One lands with a _thump_ on the seat next to him. “You gonna sit there all day?” Val asks. 

By the time Max shuffles out of the car with the bag in one hand and Ace's borrowed shorts in the other, the girls are clacking their flip-flops onto the beach, Freya's voice carrying loud and excited over the whisper of the waves. “Dad says he wants to open it up to tourists, y'know, speedboats and stuff, but mom told him over her dead body.” 

“Speedboats would be fun,” Val says, but her eyes are soft as they scan the serene lake.

Max halts beside Furiosa, his boots crunching sand. He brushes his knuckles against the back of her hand, light as the breeze drifting cool and sweet across the water.

Freya whirls away from the view in a flair of golden hair and claps her hands. “Okay! This side is the girls' changing room. That side is the boys' changing room. And no peeking!” She waggles her finger at Max, wide white grin stretched over her face. Beside him, Furiosa stiffens, creases digging into the corners of her mouth. Val glances between her foster sister, Max and Freya. 

Max frowns. “Hm,” he says, for lack of anything better. 

Oblivious to the shift in mood, Freya grabs Val's hand and drags her into the long sheltering grass on the left. He can hear her giggling, Val's low answering laugh, the zipper on the bag. 

He turns to Furiosa, skimming the back of her hand again, forehead creased. The best thing about Furiosa – there are many best things, but one of them is her ability to understand him when he can't find the words. She smiles at him and nods.

“Come on Fury!” Val calls, invisible. 

Furiosa rolls her eyes. “I'll meet you here,” she says to Max. 

It's stupid to watch her vanish into the long grass with his heart thudding hard in his chest. He does it anyway. 

Leaving the bag on the sand next to the others, Max edges into the thick grass on the right. It's shockingly sharp; he's surprised when it slices lines of red into his forearm as he parts the waving fronds, and wishes he had brought his leather jacket with him despite the warmer weather. Rather than bashing through, Max pauses, thinks. To put on shorts he'll have to take off his jeans, and his boots; he's in no hurry to cut his feet to ribbons on aggressive vegetation. Scowling, he scans the beach for other options.

Freya bursts out of the left-hand grasses and sprints for the lake's edge. Max glimpses a lot of peach-coloured flesh as she plunges into the cold water, laughing and splashing. Val re-emerges more sedately, her ochre skin skin set off by a black swimsuit. She spies Max and quirks her eyebrow.

“You alright there?”

He gestures to the reeds and lifts his bloodied forearm. 

“Change behind the car. We won't look.”

Nodding in thanks, Max makes his way back up the beach. Privacy has never been an issue in his life until he moved here, and learning what he's meant to do where and when has given him headaches. It's easier, he's found, if he just follows the lead of others; do as they do – and ask Furiosa about it afterwards.

Max leaves his boots by the back wheel with the socks stuffed inside, folds his jeans on his seat. He pauses, clad in his t-shirt and underwear, debating whether the boxers are meant to come off for swimming as well. They'll get wet – is he meant to wear them under his jeans on the way home, too? It's all so ridiculously confusing. He never even _had_ underwear until he entered state care. Scowling, Max wrestles Ace's borrowed shorts on over his boxers and calls it good. He can ask Furiosa if he's done the right thing.

“No!” Max's ears prick at Furiosa's firm voice. “Don't you dare!” There's a splash, a gasp, Val's throaty chuckle. Max sidles around the car.

Furiosa stands in the middle of the beach, arms held wide, her baggy t-shirt soaked through. Calf-deep in the water, Val grins wickedly. “Your move,” she says, and scampers into the lake where Freya is already swimming way out. 

Max approaches with caution, but when Furiosa turns there's a smile in her eyes even though she is frowning. The t-shirt – at least six sizes too big – drags down her front with the weight of water, folding into long creases and clinging to her body. Max finds himself staring at her long pale legs. 

“Now I'm going to burn,” Furiosa mutters, and starts to struggle out of the wet shirt. She lays it out on one of the colourful towels that have been arranged on the sand, then crosses her arms over her damp tank top like she's cold. 

Max knows he's staring, knows he's slack-jawed, but he's never seen Furiosa in anything less than pants and long sleeves – except Prom, and he still has dreams about her creamy skin – and here she is in a grey tank and black shorts that come to her mid-thigh and she's so pale and so _much_ …

“Will you do my back?” 

Max shakes himself, forces his eyes to look at the bottle in her hand rather than the way the light contours the hollow at her throat. He takes the bottle – frizzle of electric as their fingers brush; his mouth goes bone dry – and then Furiosa turns, sits cross-legged on a towel. 

He squints at the stylised writing on the bottle but it's difficult to make out. “Hm. What …?” 

She peers over her shoulder at him. “It's sun cream. You put it on to stop the sun burning. I can't reach my back.” She turns to the water, raising her voice to say, “You're the only one I trust to do this.” 

Val laughs and lifts a middle finger. 

Max kneels on the towel behind Furiosa – her shudder comes but passes, quicker every time; it makes something warm glow inside him – and flicks the bottle cap open, squirts a dollar-sized splodge of cream into the cupped bowl of his palm. 

“'s cold,” he says. 

Furiosa shrugs one shoulder. “It'll warm up. Just – rub it in to any skin you can see. I burn too easy.” 

Any skin he can see. He can see a lot of skin. From the graceful bend of her neck out to her broad shoulders and down her smooth arms. And she wants him to touch all that skin. Has asked him to.

His hands are shaking. His chest feels tight, heart pounding against the constriction.

His dick is hard in his pants. 

That's not a new thing, exactly. His pa explained it a little when it first happened, years ago, but there's not much in the desert to cause it. Since meeting Furiosa it's been more common. Kissing Furiosa has made it worse.

Now he can see more of her body than he ever has and he doesn't know what to _do_ with the nervous energy coursing under his skin.

“Max?” she murmurs, low. It thrums down his spine. 

“Hm.” He swipes the fingers of his right hand through the sun cream, sucks down a bracing breath, and smears it across the back of her neck. 

Her skin blooms in shivery pimples; Max follows them with his eyes as they skate down her back, out of sight. “Fuck,” Furiosa hisses. He can see her pulse throbbing in the side of her neck. “You – have to rub it in.” Her voice is unsteady. “Like – like the massage.”

Oh. That makes sense. Max squishes his palms together to spread the cream, then cups his hands over the square bends of her shoulders. The shudder that follows is more pronounced, echoes up his arms too. He waits for Furiosa's nod, then begins to smooth the cream over her skin in long sweeps. Using the heels of his palms, he rubs circles into her flesh; the cream disappears, bit by bit, leaving a shiny gloss behind as he works across her shoulders, up her neck, and then down her arms. He shuffles forward on his knees to reach further, but Furiosa leans away suddenly. Max sits back against his heels, greasy hands upright over his thighs, and waits. 

Furiosa swivels to sit on one hip, eyes downcast. “I can manage the rest,” she says. Max passes her the bottle. His insides have turned cold; he's done something wrong, done something that's hurt Furiosa. She squirts cream onto her legs and rubs it in much more vigorously than he did, almost violent. More tellingly, she's _keeping him in sight_.

He doesn't know what he did, but that's no excuse. He swore to himself, on the roof of Green Valley High when the concussion _he gave her_ made her vomit, that he wouldn't hurt her again.

Max feels sick. 

When her legs are done, Furiosa glances up. Her eyes are very wide and green. She takes a deep breath. “Want me to do your back?”

Max blinks. Not what he expected her to say. Is he forgiven? He looks at the bottle in her hand, and then to the flicker at the corner of her eye, and shakes his head. “Don't need it.” When she frowns, he reaches back and pulls his shirt off to prove it; he spent his whole life running around shirtless in the desert, so a little Washington sun isn't going to do much to him.

Actually, now that he's bare-skinned, he can appreciate how much he's _missed_ the feel of sunlight heating him, chasing away the last of the Washington winter chill. Eyes closed, his lungs expand with warm air; it's not dry like the desert, but at least it doesn't freeze the inside of his nose. He lets it out in a whoosh, flexes his spine, and feels more settled than he has for a long time. 

When he opens his eyes, Furiosa is staring at him, her mouth a little 'o'. He thinks he recognises the expression, and can feel a blush burning across his cheeks. 

“Hey!” Freya shouts, making the both of them flinch. Standing chest-deep in the lake next to Val, she waves at them. “Are you coming in or not?”

*

Max didn't always live in the desert. He wasn't moulded from sand and sun to step fully-formed out of a dark cave into the face of a hot wind. 

Once, he lived in a house. He had a bed. He went to school. He had a mother, and she took him swimming. If he reaches into the recesses of his memory, he can recall the sharp scent of chlorine, the bitter taste of it on his tongue. He can remember the eggplant colour of his mom's swimsuit, and the strange white cap she wore to keep her hair dry. 

It's these things he thinks of as he wades into the water behind Furiosa, fingers twitching, his gut a writhing mass of nerves. The water is shockingly cold. Goosebumps tremble up his legs as he sloshes further out. When he's waist-deep, Ace's shorts sagging low on his hips with the heavy drag of water, he stops. Furiosa is a little further away, and he watches, fascinated, as she plunges under the surface and bursts out again in a diamond spray. She turns to face him, keeping her shoulders tucked out of sight, and offers a smile. 

“It's better to just dunk in,” she says. Max bites his lip and pats at the lake surface with his hand. His belly is already cold; the contrast between the water around his legs and the hot sun on his shoulders is bewildering. 

“C'mon Max! Just do it!” Freya calls. She's like a fish, zooming through the water as if she was born there. 

Furiosa edges closer. “It doesn't matter if you don't know how to swim.”

“I know how,” Max says. He can remember learning, anyway. The pool had been indoors, and heated. 

Furiosa sinks down until her head is submerged and the blue has swallowed her body. She reappears ten feet away, white feet flashing as they propel her backwards. 

Max huffs at himself. It's just cold water. Stop being so weak, he thinks. _The world's too cruel for weakness_ , his pa used to say. 

Folding his arms, Max closes his eyes and lets gravity pull him down.

His mama used to launch him off her knees. He would soar through the air before crashing into the water, coming up gurgling and spluttering and laughing. 

He comes up now snorting lake water out of his nose. The cold is sharp across his chest and back; he can feel his skin tightening, jaw clenching. He really, really dislikes cold. But Furiosa was right – dunking in is better, his body acclimating quickly. Keeping his shoulders submerged, he dares to stretch out, letting the water buoy him. His feet lift off the silty floor … and he sinks straight under. 

His mama used to press her hand to his belly while he kicked his legs and flailed his arms in some semblance of swimming. Until one day she let him go and he stayed afloat by himself. 

Max is determined to do this. He stretches out again, paddling his hands like he remembers, and pushes off the floor. His feet kick a couple of times before he sinks again. Scowling, he watches the three girls gliding in circles around each other. Furiosa is the least graceful, but even now she ducks under the water; a second later, Val is tugged down with a garbled “Shit!”.

Max's third attempt lasts longer. Something in his body recalls the way he needs to stretch long, to lie down in the water and let it take all his weight. He gets a few feet before his legs drag low again. Bolstered, he tries again, and again, and again, each time getting further, his movements smoother and more confident. 

The last time he comes to a stop with a smile on his face, reaches his legs down to the muddy bottom … and encounters nothing. 

He slips under with a yelp. 

It's dark. Cold. Sounds muffled. Max looks up at the shimmering sunlight on the surface. It's only inches away but it feels like he's entered an alien world. His fingers and toes are numb, the cuts on his arm stinging. There's not enough air in his lungs. 

His feet touch the bottom. Max launches himself towards the light and doesn't stop kicking until his head breaches the surface. 

“Max!” Furiosa shouts, while he gasps and coughs and tries not to go under again. In the blink of an eye she is next to him, Val and Freya in her wake, and all three guide him to the shallows. 

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Freya circles to stand in front of him. Max rubs his eyes, shaking his head to try to clear his ears. “What did you do to your arm?!” She rests her hand over the scratched red lines.

“'s fine,” he grunts. 

“C'mon Freya,” Val says, tugging at her girlfriend's arm. The two glide away, leaving Max with Furiosa. 

He hopes she's forgiven him for whatever he did wrong, but he doesn't have the words to ask. 

“Let's go dry off,” she murmurs next to him. He follows her lead, shivering now that the breeze can blow at his chilled wet skin. On the beach, Furiosa digs two big towels out of one of the bags and passes one to him. Max grips it with numb fingers and rubs hard at his chest and legs. Soon enough, the blood returns, prickling and itchy. He scrubs his hair and beard a couple times to be rid of the worst of the drips, then wraps the towel around his shoulders. 

Furiosa is sat on the same towel where he applied the cream, but gone is the settled, sated sensation he felt when the sun first warmed him. 

Max doesn't know what to do, whether she wants him to stay or go. He shuffles from foot to foot, sand crunching between his toes. Swaddled in a large towel of her own, Furiosa glances over her shoulder in his direction – but not at him – and he stills.

She sighs. Pats the towel beside her. “Come here.” 

He goes. 

The shivers ease, that cool breeze no match for the mid-morning sun soaking through his towel. The dark hair on his legs is beginning to curl back on itself as it dries. He's never really noticed the colour of his skin before, except in passing interest when looking at the difference between his pale white thighs and the dark caramel of his forearms. Next to Furiosa, however, it's hard not to take note of the long pure expanse of her milky skin dusted with blonde hair that glints in the sun.

At school, the girls are all weirdly hairless, and he's seen enough TV now to know that this is considered normal. Furiosa, though, has hair on her legs and under her arms. He likes that she's different to the others. Different like him. Like they're on the same side. 

Life away from the cave would be infinitely harder without her.

“'m sorry,” he murmurs. He sees her head turn, out the corner of his eye. “For – before. I don't know – but I'm sorry.”

Her hand reaches out and closes over his, resting on his thigh. Her skin is so pale in contrast, her fingers long and thin where his are scarred, misshapen, ugly. She squeezes once. 

“You didn't do anything wrong,” she says. Max frowns, confused, but nonetheless a weight lifts off him like he's buoyed in the water again. “It's me. I ...” She trails off, bites her lip. 

Max turns his hand over and weaves their fingers together. Whatever it was, it doesn't matter.

*

After lunch – sandwiches and homemade raisin cookies from Mrs Seeds, with fresh orange juice to chase it down – Max needs to visit the bathroom.

“Just go into the trees,” Furiosa murmurs. She's flat on the towel, eyes shut and half asleep. Max is overwhelmed with the sudden urge to kiss her, but he needs her permission, and she looks so peaceful he's reluctant to bother her. 

It's surprisingly cool in the shade of the pine trees. The needles prick his feet, and everywhere is the thick smell of green. He takes a right off the track, finds a place that's hidden enough, and unbuttons Ace's shorts. 

At least his boxers are slowly drying thanks to his body heat.

On the way back to the beach he hears the murmur of voices. It's been a while since he saw Val and Freya, and there's surely more than one way to enter and exit the water. Still, his pa's voice cautions him about strangers, and so he follows the sound, stepping light as he can around trees and through brush. He was trained for stealth in the desert, not the forest, but when he sees Val and Freya he knows there was little chance of them noticing him anyway.

Val has Freya pinned against a tree. Her face is buried into Freya's neck, her hand stuffed under the skimpy covering of Freya's lime bikini bottom. Freya has her eyes closed, blonde head tipped back against the tree, teeth sunk into her lip while Val murmurs low words into her ear. One breast is hanging outside her matching bra top.

Max backs away.

Minutes later he flops onto the towel next to Furiosa and blinks unseeing at the shimmering water. He can't get the image of the two women out of his head, Val's hand and Freya's breast. It makes him feel flushed and awkward all over. His dick is half-hard in his pants again, which makes it all worse. 

Furiosa squints at him. “You okay?”

Pursing his lips, Max picks at the towel under his legs. “Saw something,” he says. 

Furiosa levers up onto her elbow. Max glances sideways at her, notices the slide of her breasts and the crease of her shorts between her legs. He frowns and shakes his head, looks away again. He doesn't know what's happening to him. 

“Hey,” Furiosa says, sitting up and reaching across for his hand. His fingers sparkle under her touch. “What did you see?”

“Val and Freya. Kissing. And – touching.” 

“Oh.” Her hand has gone rigid in his. He lets go, lets her pull back into herself the way tarantulas did when he stomped the ground by their burrows. 

“Never seen it before,” he says. 

“Oh.”

Furiosa twists to sit facing the lake, knees pulled up to her chest and towel hiding most of her from view. 

He's done something wrong again, Max knows it. He wishes he knew how to stop hurting her. 

And the image is still in his head, and his dick is still twitching in his pants. Scowling, Max shunts to his feet and wades into the lake; despite the chill, he doesn't stop until he's waist-deep and can dunk under the water where it's cold and dark and simple.

*

Floating is good. Floating is relaxing. It took him three near-drownings to figure it out, but now he's enjoying it, the lake buoying him up, the sun warm on his face. He feels cool and calm.

Furiosa sloshes through the water towards him, stops just within reach. Her gaze is like a physical weight on his chest. Still, he flinches when she reaches out to touch his drifting hand. He splashes to his feet, water trickling in ticklish trails down his belly. Furiosa's eyes follow the path to the waistband of his shorts riding low on his hips. She swallows and glances up, twin blushes on her cheeks. Max isn't sure what's going on, but his heart is racing and he can barely catch his breath. He is trapped by the troubled green depths of her eyes. 

“It's hard for me,” Furiosa says. Her voice is low, soft. “Because of – what's happened. What I've done.” She licks her lip; Max mirrors the flick of her tongue. He is hot all over. “One day I want to do – that, what you saw. I want to do it – with you.” She draws in a stuttering breath. Her hand lifts, reaches, presses against Max's pectorals, slides smooth as silk over the sparse hair, catching on his nipple as she strokes down and down. His belly sucks in at the shock of the contact. No one has ever touched him this way before. “I want to do everything with you,” she breathes, swaying forward. 

Max's dick is rock hard in his pants. His skin trembles under her fingers skimming below his navel. “Furiosa,” he chokes, hands twitching by his sides. 

Furiosa jerks back. She glances guiltily at him. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” When he lifts his arm, she turns and splashes back to shore.

Max sinks into the water's cool embrace.

*

Val and Freya are back when he stumbles up the beach on legs made rubbery with exhaustion. Sharing a towel, they feed each other bites of food, completely wrapped up in each other's presence. 

Furiosa is on her towel, curled up like a comma, her back to the girlfriends. 

Max sinks onto the towel beside her. After a moment, he rearranges so he is laying down, facing her. 

Her eyes are huge in her face. She looks haunted. 

Max rests his hand palm up on the sand between them. Slowly, she eases her hand into his. They both release a pensive breath. 

“I'm sorry,” Furiosa murmurs. Max shakes his head minutely; water trickles past his ear.

“I don't know – anything,” he says. “But. I want what you want. So – so when you – want. Tell me what to do.” 

There are tears gleaming in her eyes that refuse to fall. He's never seen her cry. “I'll ruin you.”

“No.” She makes him better. She makes everything in his life easier. Without her here, there would be no point; he might as well head back to the desert, because there's nothing else in Washington worth staying for. But to put all that into words is beyond Max's ability. Instead, he scoots closer, half-laying in the sand, and cups her cheek in his palm, pressing his forehead to hers. “No.” 

When she nods, he knows he can kiss her, and he does. It strikes through him like lightning, a flood of heat and light as her soft lips part and he can slip his tongue inside the secret cavern of her mouth. This sensation – the electric spark of their tongues meeting, the puff of her breath warm on his face, the broken little moan caught in her throat – this is something _she_ has given him. How could she think he's ruined by her, when all she does is bring clarity to his life?

*

Val drives them back to Green Valley with more reserve. The radio is quiet, Max's jeans are uncomfortably damp where his boxers are soaking through, and Furiosa's hand is soft and sweet in his. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you've got any high school fluffy prompts/tropes you want to see, I'd love to hear them!


End file.
